


Bright Nights

by sigmalied



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/F, Post-Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 08:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14444979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigmalied/pseuds/sigmalied
Summary: During a late-night drive, Michiru and Haruka talk.





	Bright Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Яркие ночи](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578025) by [kira_sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kira_sky/pseuds/kira_sky)



> This is an overdue gift to a pairing and fandom that helped make my adolescence less painful.

“You know,” says Haruka, “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Heard what?”

“What you played today."

An evening rain leaves a sheen on the highway that lasts long into the night. Porous concrete becomes a black, sprawling mirror, sending the reflections of intermittent streetlights flickering by beneath the yellow convertible. Road signs caught in the headlights burst from the darkness and pass like pale ghosts. The air is cool and clean, rinsed of all impurities and settling weightlessly over street, soil, and grass.

Following a pause, Michiru answers, “I know. I composed this one in private.” The calm of her voice and expression never falters, never wanes.

“How long did it take you to finish?”

Michiru thinks. “A few months.”

They’re both dressed in some of their finest. Michiru’s violin case rests in the back row of seats, covered by Haruka’s folded coat in case the weather becomes dreary again. Meanwhile, the radio quietly plays, the name of the tuned station glowing phosphorescent green on the dashboard. It’s something Michiru has heard before, perhaps a month or two prior, while driving down a similar stretch by the sea.

Except, it isn’t Haruka driving this time. The haughty climate of the recital had driven the poor thing deep into one too many glasses of champagne, leaving only one half of their pair able to deliver them from all the commotion. That was simply the fashion in which they came and went: suddenly, with poise and discretion. It was common idiosyncrasy turned habit, turned tradition, to the inveterate extent that Haruka rather relinquish the wheel than entertain the curiosities of strangers until she sobered.

From the passenger’s seat, Haruka holds an arm outside the car, points her hand forward, and idly makes a waving gesture that starts in her fingertips and follows through to her elbow. “You drive slow, Michiru,” she says. “It’ll be midnight by the time we get back.”

“Compared to you, maybe,” Michiru answers. She glances at Haruka, seeing how the wind sweeps through her hair which had previously been, for once, neat and tidy for the recital. It isn’t so any longer, and neither is her dress shirt. At some point it became unbuttoned to just below her collarbone. “I may have learned from the best," she continues, "but it isn’t my car. I should take care of it.”

Haruka withdraws her arm and lays it along the glossy door. “It _is_ your car,” she pleasantly objects. “It’s our car.”

Michiru succumbs to the temptation of extending a hand behind Haruka’s head and lets her fingers comb and curl into her hair with gentle affection. As she strokes the back of her neck with a thumb, Haruka gazes at her a bit dreamily, but Michiru doesn’t have the luxury of appreciating the look overlong. She keeps her eyes forward on the road ahead.

The trees bordering the highway still glisten as if they were black waterworn stone. Dim light rebounds all around them, on the guard rail tunneling through the darkness.

“I was sitting near this girl,” Haruka says, speaking of the recital again. “She was about our age. It made her cry.”

A rueful smile appears on Michiru’s lips. “Oh my.”

“It was quite sad, after all. Um… I guess I’d ask why you kept it private.”

Michiru retracts her hand and takes Haruka’s with it. Their fingers weave together and she rests their hands against the velvety black material of her dress, on her thigh where it emerges from her open coat. “If I had included you," she replies, "the mood might have lifted.”

“I see.”

They grow quiet, and Michiru listens to the distinct sound of the tires churning street water.

When she recalls the recital, she remembers the bright stage lights. How they wrapped her violin in a membrane of white as she coaxed somber hues from its strings, reflecting with exquisite fidelity the currents writhing through her chest like agitated depths of the sea. Storms of brine and frothy sea foam flowed from her fingertips and seeped into the very wood of her instrument, capsizing her notes for a measure, until they breached again, briefly, and dove back into despondent waters where light faded into abyssal blue.

“Are you okay?”

The question arrests her attention. “What do you mean?”

As Haruka gives an evasive shrug, she explains, “You seem… a little preoccupied.”

“Just tired, I’m sure.”

“Ah. Never mind then.”

She doesn’t tell Haruka, but Michiru can recall several incidents over the past few months where the canvas of her unconscious _and_ conscious mind have been painted by a hand that is, and is not, her own. Sometimes her dreams draw her away into a cove on the other side of the universe, where an empty palace hides among the tangled kelp and opalescent tapestries contain the echoes of her passage. Sometimes her bathroom mirror goes quicksilver, and there she is, Neptune, drifting like a mirage in a sunless ocean.

She has seen Uranus, too. They find each other under lonely primordial skies and the void of existence begins to brim. Upon waking, Michiru has felt cold tears gliding down her cheeks. She can never discern whether she sheds them in agony or in joy.

They aren’t horrible visions. They’re beautiful. They flood her veins with nostalgia and a sense of transcendent belonging. But they also yearn. They demand something from her - some _action_ \- that Michiru cannot know. The only way to cope, incidentally, is turning to painting and music. They are the only valves she has ever known to release the pressure of the myriad visions that swirl about her head.

Her audience watched her drown tonight, but Michiru finds herself utterly unapologetic. 

“When I was in the city yesterday,” she speaks up, “I ran into the girls. Did I tell you? They’ve invited us to lunch next week.”

Haruka blossoms with interest. “Really? I haven’t seen them in ages. How are they?”

“They all look so mature now. They’re lovely.”

“Don’t be fooled.” Haruka’s tone is jovial. “I’m sure they still bicker and get up to no good all the time."

She gives a soft laugh. “It’s part of their charm.”

They pass a highway exit sign. Michiru recognizes the name of the street and judges a half hour remaining in their drive.

“They admire you, you know,” says Haruka. “They think you’re perfect.”

“Do they? I always thought they admired you.”

Haruka downturns her gaze. The steady breeze carves a new haphazard part in her hair, and when she lifts her head again, austerity has hardened her expression. “I was too harsh to them.”

“We were both harsh, but things were different back then. They understand now.”

“Yeah. I hope so.”

Although she agrees, Michiru can tell she no longer wants to speak of the past. She also prefers not to. It’s miraculous that they’ve emerged from their duties with their livelihoods relatively unscathed, and the mere notion of facing another cosmic upheaval is enough to drain the blood from Michiru’s hands, leaving them ice-cold. When she realizes that her recent visions may portend future battles, her grip tenses about the steering wheel, turning her knuckles white as she guides the car through a curve of the road.

As always, Michiru tells herself it’s best to take a deep breath and maintain the distractions.

“They asked about you,” she tells Haruka, who raises her eyebrows.

“What about me?”

“What you’d expect. How you were doing. If you’re still racing.”

“The second one is easy to figure out. Don’t they read the paper?”

“They also asked,” says Michiru, “with great enthusiasm, about our relationship.”

A dash of color erupts on Haruka’s cheeks. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them the truth. I told them you can’t function without me.”

“That’s just great.” Haruka retrieves her hand and returns it to her lap, leaving Michiru’s grasp empty.

“Why did you do that?”

Haruka tips her head at a derisive angle. “I’m functioning on my own.”

That makes Michiru laugh. She can see the moon now as the road takes them westward. Its waxing face reminds her of those girls again. Reminds her of an old, glorious kingdom turned to dust. 

She's happy. She _knows_ she's happy; in the moment and in general. But even as her laugh still lingers on her breath, the moon makes her heart feel heavier than the world and painfully hollow at the very same time.

“How is your—” Michiru makes a tipping motion toward her mouth with her index and thumb. “—coming along?”

“It’s been long enough,” replies Haruka. She demonstrates her sobriety by touching the fingers of each hand to her thumbs.

“Would you like to drive the rest of the way?”

They stop at a turnout to change seats. Arms brush as they pass in front of the headlights; an accidental touch made tender by the provocative glance Michiru casts over her shoulder, and the smirk Haruka issues in return. The car doors shut and they settle in. Haruka is about to release the parking brake when she notices Michiru intently watching her, and pauses altogether to stare back.

Without a word, Michiru reaches out, grips the folds of her collar, and pulls them together over the space between their seats. When they kiss, kaleidoscopic stars burst behind Michiru’s eyes, dissolving her thoughts like comet fracturing in the atmosphere, and it's precisely what she wants.

She feels restless. She feels as ephemeral as twilight.

Haruka’s breath is on her skin, as is the warmth of her blushing cheek when she tilts her head against the arms draped around her neck. She feels Haruka smoothing her hands forward to rest on her jaw, searching in vain for a steadying shore that does not exist. No, Michiru sweeps her away. Runs her fingers through short ash locks with a sincerity the wind could only envy. She grips her hair on possessive instinct and pulls just hard enough for the thrill.

The instant the symmetry of their kiss breaks, sending Michiru’s lips undeterred to the corner of her mouth, Haruka utters in a voice so breathless it trembles, “Where are you, Michiru?”

“I’m here,” she answers between the kisses she scatters over her cheek, each firm and ardent.

“You’re a million miles away,” says Haruka. A small whimper leaves her when the attention momentarily dips below her jaw. With great apparent effort, she recovers her voice. “You’re on the other side of the moon.”

Michiru levels their faces. “I’m right here,” she insists, brushing their lips together before applying sweet pressure. This time, she kisses her harder, deeper. But addressing the question is inevitable. It burrows further into her mind the longer she avoids it, until its anxious presence eclipses intimacy.

She finally retreats to see the flush in Haruka’s face and the smudges of lipstick she has left behind. Under ordinary circumstances Michiru would’ve admired the thorough dishevelment, but the mood has grown dour. Haruka only exacerbates it by asking, “Are you sad, Michiru?”

 _Sad._ That word isn’t right, but what is the alternative?

Haruka tucks a few strands of hair behind Michiru’s ear as she awaits her response. The investment of care and interest makes her heart feel as though it were leaking all its blood into the cavity of her chest. Michiru gives what she can, speaking straight from her well of worry and confusion.

“I… don’t know what to do,” she says.

“You don’t know what to do?”

“It was always clearer in the past. A sense of urgency or objective. This time, I have nothing. I can’t stand it.”

Haruka’s expression softens with understanding. Meanwhile, an odd wave of relief washes over Michiru. Merely speaking about the existence of her troubles has lessened their burden significantly. She isn’t so alone in her head anymore.

The two straighten out their posture and clothes, feeling abashed about the untimely refrain. Michiru directs the rearview mirror toward herself, sees her ruined application of lipstick, and resolves the problem by fetching a handkerchief from the glovebox and wiping it away. Haruka takes no action to remove the vermillion smears on her mouth and cheek. She may not even realize they're there. Instead, she sits quietly, hands folded in her lap, staring ahead into the gaze of the headlights. Soon, Michiru joins her distant stare.

“Is it bad?” asks Haruka.

“Bad?” Michiru looks at her.

“Are they of… bad things?”

“No. They aren’t."

After giving a shallow nod, Haruka adjusts the mirrors, releases the parking brake, and applies her foot to the pedal. She checks for oncoming traffic before leaving the turnout, and the winds about their heads quickly pick up as the car accelerates. The clock on the dashboard reads midnight.

Once they're coasting at a speed Haruka finds comfortable, she asks, “Want to go to the pool tomorrow?”

A delicate furrow appears in Michiru’s brow. “The pool?”

“If you’ve got the time.”

She wants to feel contempt for Haruka’s dismissal of the issue, but can’t bring herself to. Haruka has always been wiser than she’s given herself credit for. She recognizes when something is within their power and responsibility to control, and she recognizes when there are opportunities to _bring_ it into their control when it is not. This is neither of those situations. There is nothing that can be done. Yet, Haruka refuses to let that fact torment them.

The implicit purpose of her offer quells Michiru's unease as she asks herself, if what should come happens to be dreadful, why would they extend that dread beyond its natural duration? That is what Haruka wants her to see. That is how she is to help her. They had always protected one another from unnecessary pain in the past, and this is no different. 

“Yes,” Michiru decides. “I’ll have time.”

Several minutes pass. They leave the highway and dip into the city, passing dark storefronts Michiru knows to be precious pink and green in the daytime but at this hour appear completely unfamiliar.

At a stoplight, they’re at last joined by the company of many other vehicles on the quiet night. The car that rolls up next to them is filled with teenagers. Their original intent is to ogle the car and the two people inside of it, but one look at Haruka’s lipstick-smudged face sends their laughter bubbling wildly into the damp air. Haruka curses and wipes at her face with a hand, mortified, while Michiru tries to contain her amusement. The light changes and Haruka proceeds with haste.

“Stop it,” Haruka says.

“Stop what?”

“Smiling.”

“Can I not be pleased to be with you?”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re laughing.”

“I haven’t made a sound.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“How can you tell?”

Haruka’s tone abruptly softens. “Because I know you too well.”

As she turns away to conceal her expression, Michiru looks out at the buildings rising along the busy main street. Half their countless windows are still illuminated, whether residential or business. Whenever the flow of traffic becomes brisk, they melt and smear into swaths of brilliant paint, almost crystalline with moisture. The sight moves something in the ancient depths of her. It brings to mind the rebuilding of fantastical, timeless skylines where the lights never fade, and rain is not needed to make hearts and surfaces shine like midnight suns.


End file.
